Wanna Bet On That?
by Yombatable
Summary: EU galas were at best... necessary and tedious. At worst they were the source of mockery and embarrassment for every nation involved. Most nations made bets on the number of fistfights, drunkenly revealed government secrets, drunker come-ons, and vaguely sober rejections happened in the night. So naturally, the betting pool began as soon as Ireland approached England. EngIre.
1. Netherlands Earns His Keep

**TBH this is just a little something I wrote ages ago, I'm not completely happy with it, but I'm posting it to prove to you I'm not actually dead... and because my thirst for EngIre reared it's ugly head again.**

 **I've had absolutely no writing inspiration recently and I hate it... but with any luck I'll get my spark back soon.**

 **Enjoy! ;)**

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EU galas were at best... necessary and tedious. At worst they were the source of mockery and embarrassment for every nation involved. Most nations made bets on the number of fistfights, drunkenly revealed government secrets, drunker come-ons, and vaguely sober rejections happened in the night. It was mostly a way of entertaining themselves while their bosses actually did work and made connections elsewhere.

Yeah, sure, they were _supposed_ to do the same, but not one of them ever did. Even Germany, after a single sip of beer, gave into the call of fucking about as only nations can.

So naturally, the betting pool began as soon as Ireland approached England. Non-threateningly, and holding out a glass of what was probably whiskey which England sniffed at suspiciously before taking a cautious sip.

Four bets that it was poisoned. Three that it was drugged. One that Ireland had spat in it. And one that they were secretly fucking.

The betting pool was always small to begin with, but as soon as the room rounded on their targets for the night, it usually began to grow, and fast. Netherlands always kept careful count.

When England sipped at it, and Ireland made a comment which actually made the other island laugh, the bets changed.

Five bets that it was poisoned. Nine that it was drugged. Four that Ireland had spat in it. Three that they were secretly fucking. And one that Ireland _wished_ they were secretly fucking.

England raised his eyebrow at the Irishman, which prompted the other to look irritated and reply with something else that made England laugh, and after that they seemed to slip into easy conversation. The longer they did, the more the bets changed.

Poisoned had been ruled out. Drugged as well. Spat in was seeming unlikey, but had gained two bets, and Netherlands had promised that he would ask Ireland about it later. The secretly fucking theory was gaining popularity, and two more people had put in money for it. But not as much as the pining theory, apparently people liked a good sob-story, because that one had gained four more bets, despite the fact that England seemed to be reciprocating.

England leant in to whisper something in Ireland's ear, and Ireland turned back to him with shock written on his face, before he smiled and leaned back to whisper something in return.

Three more bets for 'secretly fucking'.

England bit his lip, raising a hand to hide the action, but just a little too late.

One more bet for 'secretly fucking'.

A new betting pool began, in regards to whether or not they'd be shagging by the end of tonight or not. The stats were currently 14 'yes's and 5 'no's.

Ireland took England's glass from him, their hands brushing deliberately, and something else was whispered which made England smile, or perhaps it more of a smirk, but either way, it was hard to miss the hint of 'come hither'.

Make that 18 'yes's.

Ireland wandered over to the bar, presumably to buy them a re-fill, and those of the countries that were watching England might have noticed the way he leant back against the table, his eyes wandering, without a hint of subtlety, over Ireland's form.

20 'yes's. And that was everyone's bets placed. Now to wait.

When Ireland got back, England tossed back his drink in a single gulp, making Ireland smile amusedly into his own glass and make a comment which made England laugh and shake his head, throwing an arm over his shoulder, and whispering something in his ear which made his mouth twitch into a smile and finish off his own drink in one short gulp. He nodded, and the two of them were rather suddenly, and without warning, kissing like horny teenagers.

If there was any doubt as to the intentions of the kiss, Ireland's hands, which had originally fallen on England's hips, reached down and firmly grabbed England's arse, making the man in question jump a little in surprise, but instead of pulling back, he just seemed to laugh and dive back in with renewed vigour. England's body curved into Ireland's, his hands curling into his hair as his arms curled around his neck, and Ireland's hands found firmer purchase on England's arse.

The few 'no' betters rather reluctantly handed over their money.

England pulled out of the kiss to mutter something, to which Ireland seemed the opposite of opposed, before the two of them turned to grin at Netherlands, each of them sending a wink in his direction.

It took only several seconds after that for the two of them to scramble out of the room, most likely in search of an empty room. Netherlands supposed the first betting pool would have to wait until the morning, when he could track Ireland down, but right now, he was rather happily counting out winnings, and with any luck, there would be another bet on something else in not too long.

If their bosses only knew how to profit off of this, the EU might not be down shit creek.

Netherlands resolved never to tell them. That way he could take his healthy share of winnings every time.

What is it they say about trusting the bookie?


	2. Ireland Wins The Bet

**A part two to this thing, from Ireland's POV this time.**

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When Ireland approached England, holding out the glass of scotch to him, England had looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. He took it warily, holding it up to his nose, "What did you put in it?"

Ireland rolled his eyes, "I didn't put anything in it you ungrateful shit, I actually came over to ask something."

England sipped at it warily, apparently having decided to trust him. "Hm?"

"I want to trick everyone into thinking we're fucking."

England coughed out a laugh, "You what? You can't be serious."

"You know about the stupid bets that go around at these things," he said, a little miffed that England looked as if that second head had just started yodelling. He hated that stupid eyebrow, the left one that always raised whenever England convinced himself he was talking to an idiot, "I want to see if we can make them bite."

England chuckled, shaking his head, "You really think we can make them think _we_ are fucking?"

Ireland nodded, his mouth ticking up in a smirk, "What, you don't believe in the good ol' Irish charm?"

England rolled his eyes, "Hm, _charm_ might be pushing it, Ireland."

"Oh like you're the height of sophistication," Ireland shot back.

"I don't need to be, I just need to be _more_ sophisticated than you lot, which is all too easy, since you're a bunch of uncouth idiots."

Ireland rolled his eyes, "You're such a snobbish twat."

England's lips curled a little smugly, "Am I? I hadn't noticed."

Ireland actually found himself laughing at that, "Okay, well at least you know it."

"Ireland, I've been called it enough over the years, at some point you've got to start acknowledging that it might be true."

Ireland shrugged, "As true as that may be, I'm not a leprechaun just because every time I see America he asks to see my pot o' gold."

England gasped in fake shock, "You mean you're _not_? I've been living a lie."

Ireland narrowed his eyes at him, "I hate you. You know that."

England shrugged, "You're the one who suggested we pretended to be shagging," he took another long sip of his scotch, "Why didn't you ask someone else? You know, that actually _likes_ you?"

Ireland elected to maturely ignore the last part of England's sentence, "Because I _know_ you're not gonna pull a mysterious lover out of your arse."

England frowned at that, "What makes you think I _don't_ have a mysterious lover I can pull out of my arse?"

Ireland snorted, "Because you're _you_ , are you trying to say you _do_?"

England stubbornly pursed his lips, "No, that's not what I'm trying to say, and I resent that statement, thank you. I could very well have a secret lover if I wanted."

Ireland snorted again, "Yeah, sure you could, who?"

England waved him off, "That's unimportant."

Ireland grinned smugly through his scotch as England downed the rest of his own, "What that means is that there isn't anyone that comes to mind that would _want_ to."

England scowled at him, before his expression changed to something sultry, leaning in to whisper in Ireland's ear, "Careful, or I might think _you_ actually want to."

Ireland leant back, away from England and his strange, new persona, before noting the expression on England's face, sly and amused, and steeled himself to lean back in and whisper back, "Does that mean you'll do it? Or are you just _that_ desperate to get in my pants?"

England did a rather convincing job of biting his lip and trying to hide it, lifting up a hand to hide the movement just late enough that anyone who was watching them would notice. That crafty bastard. He lowered his hand, an amused smile on his face, "You _wish_ , you horny dog."

Ireland wasn't sure what to make of that, and instead took England's now empty glass from his hand, deliberately brushing their fingers together, and leaning in to whisper in his ear, "Do us a favour and check out my arse as I top us up."

England as good as leered, "No problem darling."

England really was a different person after a few drinks. Lightweight as he often was. Not that Ireland minded, he was much less of an insufferable dickhole and more of an attractive dickhole. Not that he was sure there was such a thing as an attractive dickhole. He doubted anyone saw a dick and the hole was the thing that got them wet... then again, he's come across stranger kinks and- wait... shit, did he really just think that? How many drinks had _he_ had? Two? Four? More? Now that he thought about it, he probably should have been keeping track. The open bar the bosses had provided them with was a recipe for disaster if he'd ever seen one. He was actually quite sure he currently _was_ said disaster, but he was having just a little too much fun with it to care.

Whatever the case, England seemed to have fulfilled his request, because when he got to the bar, the bartender sent him an amused half-smile, "You getting lucky then tonight mate?" he asked.

Ireland just chuckled, "I hope so. Same as last time, if you don't mind."

The bartender nodded, "Coming right up."

When Ireland returned to England a minute or so later, England took the drink from him and unceremoniously gulped it back, making Ireland snort out a laugh as he raised his own glass to his lips, "Thirsty?"

England snorted out a laugh of his own, shaking his head and throwing his arm over Ireland's shoulder, "You have no idea," he drawled, leaning in to whisper in Ireland's ear, "But that's not the point, Netherland's has been watching us, which means we have a pool, do you want to make this a little more interesting?"

See, now Ireland couldn't say no to that. With a light laugh, he smiled and threw back the rest of his own drink. He nodded, and the next thing he knew, England was sucking on his tongue like his life depended on it. Don't get him wrong, it wasn't a bad thing, England was a _good_ kisser, however much Ireland loathed to admit it, and really, if he wasn't such a massive cunt he might deign to kiss him more often, but unfortunately... well, like he'd said.

He reached down from where his hands had been resting on England's hips, deciding that the betting pool could do with a little more fuel. England jerked in surprise at the first squeeze, but after a short moment just laughed, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "Cheeky bastard," and dove back in with twice as much enthusiasm. He curled himself into Ireland's body, and he was rather thankful that England seemed to be content with being the one to wrap his arms around _Ireland's_ neck and not the other way around. At least this way, if it ever got back to their siblings he wouldn't be the _'girl'_ , because he knew that's exactly what they'd call him... the last thing they needed was _more_ fuel... especially North, the smug bitch.

He was tugged out of his thoughts by a tug of teeth on his lower lip as England pulled out of the kiss, and he rather suddenly noticed the two of them had gotten a little... _hot and bothered_ , as it were.

Well shit.

He decided to blame it on a combination of England and the alcohol, because this definitely wouldn't have happened otherwise. He carefully omitted the part, in his own mind, about how this had been _his_ idea in the first place.

"Do you want to continue this elsewhere? We already got this far."

Now, if Ireland _knew_ how many drinks he'd had, and if that number had been a few less he might have turned him down, but as it stood, he had a willing participant (even if that participant happened to be his annoying-as-shit neighbour) and as a man with a working penis, he found it rather hard to turn that offer down.

He laughed a little, "That desperate for a lay, huh?"

England replied with a slightly sultry smile, nipping at his jaw, "If I say yes, will you sleep with me?"

He nodded, and the two of them turned at the same time to look at Netherlands who was watching them happily, a wad of money that he appeared to be counting in his hand, they both winked, and Netherlands nodded in amused recognition.

England grabbed him by the arm, "Come on, I'm- shit-"

Ireland laughed, "Yeah, me too."

And then the two of them ran from the room, toward the room down the hall where Ireland was sure he'd seen a sofa. And- oh look, there was even a lock on the door. Perfect.

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 **Continued in 'Fuck the Bet, and Fuck Me Instead.'**


End file.
